


The Wrath of Heaven

by InterstellarVagabond, MyKindOfCrazy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Semi request and semi collab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:02:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterstellarVagabond/pseuds/InterstellarVagabond, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyKindOfCrazy/pseuds/MyKindOfCrazy
Summary: It's easy to forgot that the soft angel in the bowtie knows how to use that flaming sword he gave away. When Crowley gets into some trouble, his guardian angel comes to his rescue.





	The Wrath of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyKindOfCrazy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyKindOfCrazy/gifts).



> A semi request and semi collab with mykindofcrazy/nonbinarydisaster as I brought up angels are scary and they asked me to write about it and I can never refuse them especially when they write a rough scene for me to work with.  
> So I took a lot of confusing creative liberties with how demon bodies work being as vague as possible like I always do with things outside my knowledge.
> 
>  
> 
> Comments are, as always, appreciated!

They left him alone… for the most part.

The problem with demons these days, Crowley thought to himself as he was slammed roughly into the ground, was that they were too eager.

Everything was fire and brimstone, everything was wickedness and rage, everything was about being the best demon you could be. Where he had been happy taking credit for humanity's worst and causing large inconveniences, the younger stock seemed to have something to prove.

Which was why he was currently brawling with a trio of demons out for blood, black feathers raining down with each furious wingbeat. Because he was the demon Crowley, the damned who couldn't be killed by holy water and walked with angels. Killing him would help them rise amongst the fallen, and allow them a healthy amount of bragging rights.

The largest of the group, the one who had dented the hood of his Bentley when she landed on it, dropped down onto Crowley. The other two pinned his wings, one of them actually had the audacity to pluck a feather with a fanged smirk.

"Oh, … come on," Crowley sighed. "That's not necessary."

"Just a souvenir," the demon said in what Crowley was sure he thought was a threatening voice.

Before he could reply to that remark the attack resumed.

Crowley twisted his shape, small and scaly enough to escape their grasp. Then he burst back into his other form and tried to escape to the sky, but the big one grabbed his ankle and slammed him back down, hard. He felt something snap in one of his wings. He couldn't really be bothered to tell which wing, he was too busy hissing in pain.

"Do it already!" The third and most nervous looking one said. The big one snapped her fingers, not to perform any sort of magic but rather to command the nervous one to manifest a weapon for her. He pulled a spear from the nothing, which trailed black smoke behind it as he passed it over to Crowley's would be executioner.

Placing one heavy combat boot on Crowley's chest, the demon raised the spear with both hands and lined it up rather dramatically with Crowley's throat.

"Go ahead," Crowley spat. "I'm sure I'm just one more rung of the ladder to you, huh? Oh, you're so impressive."

"See you in hell, Crawly," the demon said. "And so will everyone else you've pissed off."

For all his confident snark, Crowley did flinch as the spear came down. His last thought, aside from the overwhelming fear of all the creative ways he'd be punished after this, was:  _ he's going to think I stood him up for dinner. _

There was a cry of pain, and it wasn't his, so he slowly opened one eye just in time to see the demon standing on him give one last gasp before dissolving into ash. 

"Oh, shit!" The nervous one shouted, as the fury of heaven rounded on him. 

The fury of heaven coming, of course, in the shape of a middle aged bookshop owner in a tartan sweater vest. Somehow, his angel managed to make that shape look absolutely terrifying.

Aziraphale stepped in front of Crowley, spreading his wings wide to block him from view. He was wielding a flaming sword that he absolutely should not have had, and he brought it down in a deadly arc and mercilessly rent the nervous demon in two.

The last demon, the smirker, tried to make a break for it. 

_ Surely, he’ll let this one go, what a pity,  _ Crowley thought. 

He was rather surprised when instead, Aziraphale’s wings cut through the air in pursuit. The angel pinned the demon several yards away, driving the sword through his back. 

When he straightened, wings folding behind him, the demon had been discorporated.

“Angel…” Crowley said in disbelief. 

When Aziraphale turned back towards him, there was a second where his stare burned through Crowley, eyes like holy flames. 

Then the angel gasped and tripped slightly running back over to Crowley, ruining the terrifying image.

“Oh, what did they do to you?” he fretted. He dropped the sword, which extinguished in the grass, so his hands were free to check Crowley for damage.

“I’m fine,” Crowley lied. “Nothing that won’t fix itself in a day or two, listen, did you just  _ smite _ those bastards?”

“They were  _ hurting _ you,” Aziraphale said, with a voice so pained it sounded like he was the injured party. “They were going to kill you- of course I smote them!”

“I think I like how vengeance looks on you,” Crowley said. “And stealing, that sword is supposed to be in some angelic armory isn’t it?”

“Well… they didn’t miss it for six thousand years, I doubt they’ll start missing it now,” Aziraphale huffed. 

“How’d you know I was in trouble?” Crowley asked, slapping away Aziraphale’s hands as the angel tried to help him stand. 

“ In over six thousand years you've never been late to one of our dates. It was suspicious,” Aziraphale said, dusting himself off and vanishing his wings. “I just… I had a feeling.”

“A feeling?” Crowley repeated a touch mockingly.

“Yes, a feeling!” Aziraphale said defensively. He was looking about the ground, and after a moment’s searching and a small ‘ah!’ of discovery he picked up Crowley’s sunglasses. One of the lenses popped out, and Aziraphale lifted his hand as if to miraculously repair the shades, but Crowley stopped him.

“I’ve got loads, just leave it,” he said, stumbling over to Aziraphale’s side. The stumbling caught Aziraphale’s attention, and then Aziraphale caught Crowley.

“Let’s just get you home for now,” he said softly.

 

Home meant either Crowley’s flat or Aziraphale’s bookshop, and so the title was used interchangeably between the two. Tonight it seemed to mean the bookshop, as that’s where Aziraphale brought them. He’d directed the Bentley, which Crowley found was a shameful waste of a car, but seeing as he was in no shape to drive he could hardly argue.

He ached, and falling onto Aziraphale’s overly plush couch hurt far worse than it was supposed to. He refused several offers of different warm beverages and snacks and then fended off any miracle healings. Well, any miracle healings that would stick. Being a demon had more than a few downsides, one of which being that holy healings burned like… well, hell.

He was unable to refuse simple disinfectant and bandages though, and was forced to sit still while Aziraphale patched him up.

"You hurt your wing?" Aziraphale asked, noticing the way Crowley flinched when he touched his back gently, fingers running over the spot where wings used to be.

"Yeah, it'll heal don't worry." Crowley dismissed. Aziraphale had already done more than enough, saving him, bringing him home, cleaning up the blood on his face and arms from wounds already starting to heal. The skin always healed quickly, superficial scrapes usually vanished by morning. Bones, however...

"If you keep them hidden it will take them longer to heal and it could heal improper." Aziraphale said matter of factly. He stood and went to the windows, drawing the curtains and setting the shop sign to closed. 

Crowley wasn't a fan of showing off his wings. They were tainted, just like his eyes, just like the rest of him. There were supposed to be no difference between an angel’s wings and a demon’s, but he could still tell underneath it all. He’d left them black as the day they burned for a reason, because he would always know the difference so why bother letting them return to white? It was a stupid dramatic choice that only made it harder, but it was his stupid dramatic choice.

"I'm good, angel, promise." 

Aziraphale gave him a pleading look that made Crowley sigh. He couldn't refuse him. 

He unfurled his wings with a shrug of his shoulders and cried out at the motion. One of his wings draped elegantly across the back of the couch, the other was horribly bent out of shape.

"Oh my poor dear." Aziraphale said ever so softly. 

"I've had worse." Crowley grunted. He didn't want Aziraphale's pity. 

Still, as the angel stared at the broken wing it didn't feel like pity, more genuine sadness and... fury.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Crowley asked.

“Like what?” Aziraphale asked, distracted. He was still examining the wing, his hands rested at his sides but Crowley could tell they were itching to comfort and heal in a way they couldn’t possibly on a blighted wing.

“Like I’m…” Crowley gestured vaguely. “... one of those fascinating and helpless creatures you love so much, and cry about so easily.”

“I do not cry easily,” Aziraphale replied, offended.

“Fine, still, why are you looking at me like I’m…” Crowley struggled a moment to put his finger on it. When he finally did, he felt a bit silly voicing it. “... like I’m in pain.”

“... you are in pain, aren’t you?” Aziraphale said.

“Yes, but… I mean,” Crowley stammered. “My pain isn’t… it’s not the same.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale managed to say his name like it was a soft reprimand. “You have to allow yourself pain,  _ and  _ healing.”

He moved over to the couch, finally laying his hands on Crowley. He placed a hand on his cheek for just a moment, before seeming to rethink it and pulling away. He took a few steps away, giving Crowley space. “And you have to allow yourself the help and compassion of others.”

“Oh, compassion, that’s all.” Crowley smirked, earning an angelic tut.

“Maybe it’s not ‘all the rage’ amongst you demons, but it serves the rest of us well enough,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley wanted to point out the several times compassion had failed angels and humans alike, but watching Aziraphale stare miserably at his broken wing only had him thinking about all the times it had worked. So instead he just deflected a different way.

“‘All the rage?’” he teased.

Aziraphale ignored the jab, never content to just let a conversation drop.

“You’re half right, anyway,” he said.

“Sorry?” 

“ I do find you fascinating, though never helpless." Aziraphale said softly. "I think of all creatures on Earth though.." He swallowed, thankful he was not facing Crowley. Six thousand years and he could still so rarely face him when he said it. "I do believe I love you most.”

Crowley was silent, and Aziraphale feared he’d maybe pushed too hard while the demon was hurt and obviously not up for much conversation let alone a deep and honest emotional conversation. He hazarded a peek over his shoulder, and was surprised to find a fond smile pulling at Crowley’s lips.

Crowley, dazed by pain and exhausted from the fight, having suddenly found himself lying comfortably in a warm bookshop with someone who insisted on caring for him, was not able to mask the selfish joy those words gave him. Aziraphale’s love, and he had the most of it. He liked that quite a bit.

He tried to convince himself it was greed for love and not “allowing for compassion” that caused him to sigh and ask Aziraphale to come closer.

“Fine,” he said, reaching out and lazily toying with the hem of Aziraphale’s sweater vest. “You can dote on me.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Let me get you something for the pain, and something more comfortable than that… rather tight ensemble you’ve thrown together.”

“Oh, so you noticed how tight my clothes are?” Crowley purred.

“It’ll be hard to pull that shirt over the wings, perhaps I’ll just cut it off,” Aziraphale threatened. 

“You absolutely will not unless you plan on miracling it back together!” Crowley literally hissed, snake’s tongue darting out of his mouth.

 

After Crowley was put into a soft haze by a dose of painkillers that might have done some damage to a real human body, and his wing was set by Aziraphale’s gentle hands, the demon allowed himself to be changed into some unnecessary but quite comfortable pajamas. 

“You know…” Crowley slurred, watching dimly as Aziraphale tidied up the medical supplies. “I forget sometimes how terrifying you can be. Angels do that… well mostly you… get all fluffy and soft and then unleash holy wrath.”

“I don’t really like killing or fighting,” Aziraphale said quietly. The light from the fireplace cast a redundant halo about his features as he turned back to Crowley, eyes fierce. “I find it easy to make an exception for your sake, though.”

“My hero…” Crowley gestured with his wing, forgetting it was injured and wincing. Aziraphale sighed fondly and abandoned cleaning to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead.

“I simply…” he paused, and then continued on with a voice more full of conviction. “I won’t allow you to be hurt. Not by anyone.”

Crowley gave a happy hum from deep in his chest, eyelids fluttering shut. Aziraphale thought he’d fallen asleep, until he spoke again after a few minutes.

“Where did your sword go, didn’t you have a sword?” he asked.

“... oh, blast,” Aziraphale swore, remembering putting his sword down and then never picking it back up.

“Again?” Crowley laughed.

“Hush! You’re supposed to be resting!” Aziraphale actually stamped his foot. 

Crowley just kept laughing. 

“Go to sleep, wicked fiend!” Aziraphale demanded, already planning and dreading the trip back to collect the damn sword. “Or I’ll miracle your shirt a more cheerful color!”

Crowley muffled his laughter with his hand, mirthful eyes watching Aziraphale grab his coat and head for the door. He almost regretted reminding him of the sword then, but even without the angel around he still felt plenty safe surrounded by his books. He felt safe enough to do as he was told and get some rest, trusting Aziraphale would come watch over him once his fetching was done.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
